


Hoodwinked

by Anonymous



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bondage, Gags, Handcuffs, M/M, Restraints, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 21:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Playing Peter’s prisoner for a case stirs up strange new feelings for Neal.





	Hoodwinked

“C’mon Neal, no more stalling,” said Peter. He spun a finger in the air, slowly.

Reluctantly, Neal turned his back. “Alright, alright, let’s get it over with.”

“Yeah, like you can’t get out of a cheap pair of cuffs.” Peter sounded like hoped a little levity would keep Neal’s mind off the situation. He snapped the bracelets around the younger man’s wrists, locking his hands behind his back.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” says Neal quietly. He fidgeted a little, but didn’t resist it as Peter checked that the restraints weren’t too tight, then guided him forward with a hand at the small of his back.

Peter slid the keys into Neal’s cuffed hand, which was somewhat insulting – like Neal needed a key to get out of a pair of cuffs. But he tucked it into his shirt sleeve anyway.

“Relax, this is just like Han and the Wookie in Star Wars,” Peter reminded him. “And that worked out okay, didn’t it?”

Neal couldn’t remember how that scene played out, but he knew someone ended up nearly crushed in a trash compactor.

“You boys about ready?” asked the CO.

They were just trying to pick up a two-bit conman, Alex Kingman - running a ponzi scheme, and trying to kill a low-level admin who was informing on him to the FBI. They had hidden the real witness, who Kingman had never seen in person, and Neal would be playing the role of the stoolie for tonight’s performance.

“Alright, uh, guess we’ve got to – ah, deal with – this,” said Peter, picking up the white cotton pillowcase that Jones had provided. It looked clean. Neal hoped it was clean.

They'd discussed this. The gag was to prevent Kingman from realizing that Neal's voice didn’t match the recordings they'd heard of their target, who'd made most of his calls on a bugged line.

They both realized at the same time that they should have let Neal gag himself, which would have felt more – he didn’t know, dignified, somehow. But now the cuffs were already on and there was no help for it. Peter would have to tie it on him.

"Do it," said Neal, resigned.

"Here we go," said Peter, reaching over Neal’s shoulders, one hand on either side of his head, holding the cloth horizontally in front of his lips. "Open up." Reluctantly, Neal parted his lips and let Peter slip it into his mouth, tucked between his teeth, grunting as it was tugged taut. It rubbed irritatingly against his trapped tongue.

“Not too bad?” asked Peter, gathering up the long ends in the back.

Neal didn’t respond, but held still while Peter tied it off surprisingly tightly behind his head.

"Oh, I like you like this," Peter purred.

Neal growled.

"Alright, let's head out."

They started walking, Peter’s hand like a clamp on the back of his neck, the other hand automatically sliding to Neal’s bound wrists, perp-walk-style. This piece of play-acting was feeling increasingly realistic. Neal was uncomfortably reminded that, in real life, he was also Peter’s prisoner.

The elevator ride was silent.

Neal couldn’t help a slight flutter of panic; his words, his voice were always the best tool in his arsenal and now he was trapped, silenced until Peter released him. His hands shifted uselessly in his cuffs, unable to hold back a soft garble through the muffling fabric.

“Steady, Neal,” said Peter, from behind him. “Are you all right?”

Neal felt himself relax a little. He nodded. He was fine. He could handle this. Just another day at the office.

The elevator swung to an abrupt stop; he couldn’t help a squeak of surprise. Peter ducked his head down, face so close that Neal could feel a warm exhale against his cheek. “You're okay.”

Neal huffed, aware of his teeth digging into the fabric of his gag, unable to keep from poking his tongue against it, trying to push it out of his mouth although he knew it wouldn’t budge, not with the way Peter had tied it off so tight behind his head.

Peter ruffled his hair, ignore Neal’s gurgle of distain. “Alright, buddy, let’s get this over with so that we can get you out of that, huh?”

He kept close as they walked down the hall, one hand brushing Neal’s lower back the whole time. Peter wasn’t usually much for the touchy-feely, except with Elizabeth. There was something about this situation –about Neal’s helplessness, shammed as it was – that caused the change. Triggered his protective instincts, maybe. Even his voice was deeper, gentler, as if Neal was one of their shaken witnesses instead of a co-conspirator.

They reached the end of the hallway. “Here we go,” said Peter, backing up to the more respectable distance that a professional hitman might hold a hostage. Neal shivered, his back suddenly cold.

“So,” said Mook #1, stepping out from behind the door. “This is our guy?”

“Gentlemen, meet Lloyd Heltd,” said Peter gruffly, pushing Neal un-gently forward. Neal managed to keep his feet but couldn’t hold back an ugly, strangled moan. _Mn, mnn, mngh!_ He hoped it really sold it.

There was Kingman, watching from the corner of the room.

 _Got him_ , thought Neal in satisfaction.

“Found him at the train station, trying to do a runner,” said Peter. ‘Train station’ was their codeword for ‘send in the SWAT team.’

“Pretty boy,” said Mook #2, aiming his gun. "Too bad we've got to kill him." Neal wheeled backwards, gabbling again – it was a really _huge_ gun when it was pointed straight at his heart like that.

“Hey hold up,” said Peter, hooking an arm in Neal’s and tugging him back, away from the line of fire. Neal wound up pressed too close against the warm line of his side. He knew that he shouldn’t block his gun arm, should stay out of the crossfire, but he didn’t jerk away.

Peter's thumb was rubbing a gentle circle over his pulse point, hidden from view, like Neal might need to be soothed, like he might spook. Even though Neal was just fine – all he had to do here was bat his eyes and look helpless - he’d been through a thousand cons more difficult than this.

Where the hell was their backup? They were only supposed to confirm that Kingston was there, and distract the mooks so they didn’t realize they were surrounded. This wasn’t supposed to be a long range con. Peter must have been thinking the same thing, because he sounded twitchy, arguing with Mook #2 about his cut, stalling for time. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else but Neal could hear it in his voice.

He still had his left hand wrapped around Neal’s wrist, just holding on, tugging lightly like he’d draw Neal in closer if he could.

When it happened, it happened fast - Mook #3 on the radio, cut off quickly, and then Mooks #1 and 2 were yelling, and Neal heard shouting in the hall. Then Peter was dragging him down, overturning a desk and pulling Neal to a crouch before the world erupted in gunfire.

One of Peter’s hands was over the back of Neal’s head, tugging it down to Peter’s chest, under his chin. Neal’s muffled moans were real now, stifled by his gag, and he was afraid he’d start to drool if this went on much longer. Peter was shushing him, trapping him in place with Peter huddled over him, protective.

He could smell Peter’s adrenaline sweat, metallic and bitter, over the faint hint of shoe polish and the fabric softener Elizabeth used on his dress shirt. He could hear Peter’s pounding heart; accelerated, but so steady, low and even enough to anchor Neal against anything, even his own erratic nature.

He almost thought he could feel Peter’s lips pressed into his hair, although he was probably imagining it – but he wasn’t imagining Peter’s strong arm locked around him like a vice, holding him close enough that nobody, not the Mooks, not the FBI – could tear him away. His fingers flexed against Neal’s scalp and it felt like a caress, and Neal closed his eyes and let himself – for once – burrow closer.

There was a burst of gunfire, seemingly from all directions at once, and Peter pulled him in impossibly tighter, his hand still cradling Neal’s skull, his thumb behind Neal’s ear, those same soothing circles until the shooting stopped.

Then Peter was unfolding them both, guiding him up like maybe he knew how shaky Neal’s knees were feeling.

Neal hadn’t ever have time to use the key to the cuffs, and now he didn’t fully trust the steadiness of his hands - not that he needed to, not when he had Peter there to it for him. In a second they were loose and Peter was massaging the red marks in his big baseball player’s hands, even though they weren’t that sore. 

He was saying something but Neal’s ears were ringing, so he didn’t argue when Peter guided his head down, forcing his chin down to his chest. Untied the sodden rag, like a baby’s bib, and eased it out from between his clenched teeth. “That’s it, that’s it” – his voice cut back in all of a sudden as he came around to Neal’s front. “Are you with me? Neal?”

They were being swarmed by the SWAT team, but Peter waved them off.

“Yep,” said Neal. His voice is bone-dry, and Peter was already snapping his fingers at one of the techs for water, pressing the bottle into Neal’s hand. Neal stared at it blankly until Peter guided his arm up, setting the bottle to his lips, and then Neal drank thankfully.

The Mooks were dead, and so was Kingman.

“Well, this really went sideways fast,” said Peter dryly, his hand still on Neal’s shoulder, squeezing, grounding him. Neal nodded and drank, trying to rid his mouth of the nasty taste of fabric softener and his own stale spit. Subtly he leaned into Peter’s side, and wasn’t pushed away.

It felt good under Peter’s arm.

“I can’t wait for the after-action report,” said Peter. "Must be quite a tale, to have kept us waiting that long."

Neal just wanted to get away from the room that smelled of blood and gunpowder. Wanted to go home (not his home, of course - Peter’s). Maybe fall asleep on Peter’s comfortable couch, feel his hands pulling a blanket up over him, maybe – maybe – stroking his hair out of his face, brushing a palm over his cheek, patting his chest and saying _You did a good job today, Neal, now get some rest_.

He wasn’t usually like this, thought Neal.

He wondered what it would take to get Peter’s bonds around his wrists again. Maybe after he’d been stripped down to pink skin, tipped down on the bed on his stomach, his legs pushed apart. Maybe he’d bite the pillowcase, or maybe Peter would _push his face into it._

“All I know is, we were in way over our heads today.”

Neal whole heartedly agreed.

"Let's get out of here," he suggested, swallowing.

He swiped the cuffs from Peter’s back pocket when he turned.

 

 

 


End file.
